


Seven Minutes

by 3raser (kay_elizabeth_roxx)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M, Rivalry, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_elizabeth_roxx/pseuds/3raser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long-time rivals, Arthur and Eames find themselves forcibly paired up for a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Minutes

Arthur's jaw suddenly locked, the muscle just beneath his ear jumping erratically. Ariadne glanced over at him and stopped dead, her ham sandwich frozen halfway to her mouth. She recognized that twitch.

“Oh no,” she breathed, watching his knuckles go white around the school newspaper. “Arthur, don't do anything rash, now--”

“He beat my discus record,” Arthur ground out from between his clenched teeth, paper shivering in his grasp. “Do you know how long I trained to beat that fucking record? I trained all summer, Ariadne. _All summer._ ”

“Well, you've still got...straighter teeth,” Ariadne replied, trying for reassurance, and Arthur's head whipped around, the glare he sent her shooting daggers deep into her mind. No, into her soul.

“Thanks for that one, love,” a familiar voice cut in, coming from just behind them. “But I must admit, Arthur, that dear Ariadne has a point. In terms of dental work, you are indeed superior.”

Arthur slowly turned his head to look at Eames, his eyes narrowed into fine, glittering points. He yearned with every fiber of his being to reach up, rip that gloating smirk right off of Eames' face, stomp on it a few times, and bury it somewhere far, far away. 

“I will destroy you,” Arthur promised, before turning on his heel and sweeping away.

~

Eames was doing chin-ups on the bar he'd installed on his front porch when Arthur jogged by, headphone tucked into one ear. Eames watched him go for a bit, before dropping to the ground with a thump and hopping up to sit on the railing.

“Arthur!” Eames called out, grinning when he made a neat 180 degree turn, a pinched look of annoyance on his face. 

“What?” he yelled back, jogging in place. “If this is about the discus record, Eames, I bet you my left leg that I'll have it back by next month.”

“Now, I wouldn't have much use for that,” Eames replied, flashing his teeth and glancing down at Arthur's calves. “It's rather skinny, isn't it?”

“Well, we can't all be big, strapping meatheads like you,” Arthur shot back, rolling his eyes. “Now would you please do me the honor of telling me why the hell you felt the need to disturb my jog?”

“I just wondered what you're training for,” he grinned, crossing his arms with a smirk. “No need to be so touchy, darling.”

Arthur ignored the endearment. “You know damn well what I'm training for. You've been training for the marathon this summer, too.”

“Really? Must have slipped my mind.”

“Goodbye,” Arthur sighed, setting off down the road, and Eames jogged after him, quickly catching up.

“Mind if I tag along?” Eames asked, eyes glittering in a way that said he was coming no matter the answer.

“You won't be able to keep up,” Arthur informed him, lips twisting sardonically.

“Try me,” Eames challenged, and Arthur turned his eyes back towards the sidewalk in front of him, his jaw tightening. 

~

Arthur flung himself down onto his bed, sweat prickling against his back. He'd run two extra miles (which had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Eames was tagging along, of course), and now he felt absolutely repulsive. 

His cellphone rang in the pocket of his shorts, and he fished it out, glancing at the screen before flipping it open. It was his lab partner, Yusuf. Phone calls from him on a Friday night never meant anything good. Friday-night phone calls meant experiment explosions, or, on more than one occasion, deaths.

“Did you kill the snails?” Arthur answered as a method of greeting, sighing heavily. “I told you not to mess around with them, Yusuf, I swear to God—“

“No!” he replied, indignant. “The snails are just fine, thank you very much. Jump to conclusions much, Arthur?”

“Last week you called me to say you poisoned our last cactus with homemade fertilizers,” Arthur reminded him. “We have a _cactus graveyard_ , Yusuf. Can you really blame me?”

Yusuf was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat as if he hadn't heard him. “Anyway, I was calling to invite you to a party at my house tomorrow night. Ariadne and Fischer are coming, so I thought you might like to.”

 _I don't even talk to Fischer,_ Arthur thought, but kept his mouth shut. “Oh. Um... Sure! I don't think I have anything else going on.”

“Cool, dude. Eight o'clock at my house. See you there,” he said, and Arthur murmured his agreement, hanging up and trudging towards the shower.

~

Ariadne glanced up from her sketch, hearing the door snick open. She paused, hand poised over the paper, and raised one eyebrow. She recognized the person entering.

“Eames,” she called, waving him over. He had a sketchbook under his arm, and looked a bit lost. “Are you here for Art Club?”

“Ariadne, love!” he greeted, flashing a wide smile. “I heard rumors that you're the one to speak with about joining.”

Ariadne grinned back in spite of herself—she really didn't understand why Arthur hated Eames so much. He was quite charming, in fact. (The whole “ridiculously gorgeous” thing certainly didn't hurt, but that was besides the point).

“There's not much ceremony around here,” Ariadne laughed. “Come whenever you want, and do whatever you want. I'm pretty sure Lisa over there is making a sculpture out of macaroni and chocolate, so pretty much everything goes. As long as it doesn't rot. Or explode.”

“Well, Yusuf's not here, so I don't think we'll need to worry about anything exploding,” Eames replied, taking a seat next to her and flipping through his sketchbook.

“What's that?” Ariadne asked, leaning over to look at a dark-haired portrait, but Eames quickly flipped past it, waving a hand.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he dismissed, turning to a new page. “Um, I'm drawing a bridge now.”

“I love bridges,” Ariadne beamed, before turning back to her sketch.

~

“So now he's jockeying for my spot in the art exhibition,” Arthur fumed, throwing yet another reject shirt from his closet. “That's just great. And why the fuck don't I have any good clothes? I'll just show up to this stupid party in the nude, see how everyone likes that—“

“Wear this,” Ariadne sighed, reaching past him to pluck out blue-striped dress shirt. “And I can't understand why you hate him so much, Arthur. He's a really sweet guy.”

“Because his number one goal in life is to beat me at everything!” Arthur exclaimed, flinging his t-shirt across the room. “How am I supposed to enjoy winning when I'm holding onto the top spot by the skin of my teeth? And he makes fun of me, and....”

“Remember that time in ninth grade when you learned violin, just so you could beat him to first chair?” Ariadne asked, crossing her arms. “Asshole-ism is often a two-way street, my dear.”

She paused, rolling her eyes. “And oh, you poor child. You can't be the best at everything by a _comfortable_ margin.”

“That's not it,” Arthur sighed, eyes downcast as he rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. “I wouldn't mind the competition if he—well, if he didn't act like it was so easy for him to beat me. I work really fucking hard, you know? I spend god knows how long working towards something, and then....”

Ariadne looked at him for a moment, before walking over to give him a squeeze. “I get it, Arthur. I don't think Eames means to be an asshole about it, most of the time, but I do get it.”

She smiled up at him, then, her eyes crinkling. “And hey, by the way, I've spent my entire life watching you kick ass at everything. I totally get it.”

Arthur chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Oh, lay off it. The only reason you don't whup my ass at everything is because you'd rather be making blueprints, Ari.”

~

Arthur parked his car on the street in front of Yusuf's house, peering up the drive. The music wasn't audible from here—getting the police called on your party tended to leave you with a bad reputation—but if the crowd just visible behind the curtains was any indication, the party was definitely in full swing.

Someone opened the door for them, red Solo cup in hand, and welcomed them in like long-lost relatives, giving Arthur's shoulder a smack. Arthur attributed this to what was in said Solo cup, considering the fact that he'd never met the person, and pushed by with a tight smile, Ariadne on his heels.

“Yusuf!” Ariadne called, making her way through the crowded living room, and Arthur followed behind, faltering a bit when he saw Eames next to Yusuf, laughing uproariously.

 _You idiot,_ he thought, rubbing a hand across his face. _You didn't think Eames was going to be here, did you? He's Yusuf's best friend, asshole, of course he's here._

“Ariadne!” Eames called, his grin sobering a bit as he spotted Arthur. “Ah, and Arthur darling as well. I'm surprised you're able to stand after that jog! Thought for a moment there that you might keel over.”

“I was just fine,” Arthur tightly replied, bristling, and Eames gave a little smile, heading towards another group of party-goers.

“You're driving home, right?” Ariadne asked him once Eames was gone, giving him her most persuasive smile, and Arthur grinned, handing her a cup.

~

By eleven o'clock everyone was comfortably buzzed (or, you know, shitfaced) except for a few responsible souls here and there. Arthur, being one of those responsible souls, was curled up on the couch with a Pepsi, listening to Cobb talk about his girlfriend. 

He and Mal had apparently gotten into a bit of a spat, and he was suitably downtrodden, still nursing his first beer. Arthur genuinely liked Cobb, but he was a bit depressing to listen to whenever he and Mal exchanged so much as one harsh word. Arthur had learned that it was usually best just to let him sulk—in the past, Arthur's (admittedly poor) attempts at reassurance had usually gone unnoticed.

Something was brewing in the middle of the living room, and Arthur glanced over when Cobb trailed off, raising an eyebrow. Arthur recognized that kind of gathering—it was a group that formed after someone suggested something that seemed like a good idea, but probably wasn't.

He wasn't particularly surprised to spot Ariadne in the middle of it, swaying a little on her feet.

“Who's going first?” she giggled, hanging onto Yusuf's arm and looking around for a volunteer.

“Eames!” someone spoke up, and everyone laughed in agreement, clapping a little as Eames came forward with a grin in his face, giving a little bow. 

“Who's my lucky partner, then, Ariadne dear?” he asked, and Ariadne grinned, shoving him unceremoniously into the coat closet.

“You'll see!” she cackled, and Arthur barked out a laugh, realizing just what game they were playing.

“It's like being in seventh grade all over again,” Arthur snickered, elbowing Cobb, and Ariadne turned around at the sound, hazy eyes honing in on him.

“YOU!” she yelled, dramatically, and Yusuf cackled with glee, nodding his agreement.

“I don't think so,” he protested, but soon enough 20 or so hands were dragging him off the couch, laughter ringing in his ears.

“C'mon guys, I don't want to play this fucking—!” he shouted, cheeks burning, but Ariadne shoved him in anyways, slamming the door behind him.

He pitched forward and flailed around a bit, coats dropping to the floor as he collided with a familiar human-shaped lump.

“Oof!” the lump said, hitting the the back wall of the closet and stepping on his foot in the process. By the time he'd righted himself, a chair had undoubtedly been forced under the doorknob, and he swore loudly, pushing Eames away.

“Let me out of here, Ariadne! I'm your ride home, you fucker!” he snarled, pounding on the door. Ariadne's drunken cackle was the only reply, and he sighed, jiggling the doorknob once for good measure. It didn't budge.

“Fancy meeting you here,” a dry, British-accented voice said from close behind him. “Come here often?”

“Har fucking har, Eames,” Arthur grunted, feeling around in the blackness for the closet wall. He found Eames' chest instead, and snatched his hand back, cheeks burning.

“Might as well make yourself comfortable,” Eames grunted. “If I understand this game correctly, we're stuck in here for seven minutes.”

“I'm not sure being comfortable is an option,” Arthur pointed out, shaking one of the fallen coats off of his foot.

He paused for a moment, sniffing the air. The closet smelled vaguely of old mothballs and feet, but there was no hint of alcohol on the air. “You aren't drunk.”

Eames chuckled. “Don't sound so surprised, darling.”

“Don't call me that,” Arthur snapped. “Why do you call me stupid pet names like that, anyway? Is it just to patronize me?”

Eames was silent for a moment. Something rustled on the other side of the closet. “It's just the way I talk, Arthur. I don't do it to be an asshole.”

“I've never heard you call anyone else 'darling',” Arthur pointed out, determined to catch him in a bluff. “Only me.”

Eames was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again, Arthur was taken aback. He sounded almost _embarrassed._ “Well, er, I don't really keep track of things like that.”

They fell into an uncomfortable silence then, save the occasion rustle or clink of a clothes hanger, and Arthur leaned his head back against the wall, giving a silent sigh.

“You know, Arthur,” Eames briskly began, cutting through the silence, “I don't actually dislike you.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows in disbelief, pushing off the wall. “You're kidding me, right? We've been antagonizing each other since sixth grade.”

“Not antagonizing,” Eames argued, his voice coming a bit closer in the blackness. “Just...competing. I actually....”

Eames' throat gave an audible click as he swallowed. “I actually... I really admire you, Arthur. Everything comes so easily for you.”

Arthur's mouth dropped open, and he froze, before abruptly dissolving into laughter. He could hear Eames huffing indignantly, but he couldn't stop, tears filling his eyes.

“Would you care to let me in on the joke?” Eames asked, loudly, and Arthur pulled himself together, hiccuping.

“My god,” he chuckled, wiping at his streaming eyes. “Sorry, I just.... Things come easy for me? I work my ass off to even come close to you, Eames!”

“Really?” Eames asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied, still grinning a bit.

“Well.... Since we're apparently playing 7 Minutes of Awkward Confessions,” Eames continued, rushing through the words, “I might as well put it out there that I've been admiring you since eighth grade, as well.”

Arthur didn't miss the change in inflection, and he froze up immediately, a blush rising on his cheeks. Eames wasn't finished, apparently.

“And I know you pretty much hate my guts, because I really am a bit of a prat when it comes to competition, but I—“

“I don't hate your guts,” Arthur cut in, quietly. “Not at all, in fact.”

Something settled heavily over them, some understanding clicking into place, and then Arthur was pressed up against the closet door, Eames' voice close by his ear.

“Please tell me I'm reading this right,” Eames murmured, nuzzling the sensitive spot just behind his ear, and Arthur wrapped his arms around his neck, turning his face to seek out Eames' lips.

They bumped noses in the dark, Eames' lips finding Arthur's chin, and Arthur laughed breathlessly, dipping his face. 

Eames let out a heavy sigh, his thick fingers framing the sharp cut of Arthur's jaw. The lips beneath Arthur's were soft and wide, a hint of stubble scraping his cheeks, and he trailed his fingers up Eames' neck, fingering the soft hair at the nape.

“ONE MINUTE LEFT!” Ariadne yelled from the other side of the door, and Arthur yelped, smacking his head back against the wood.

“Ouch,” Eames laughed, cupping the back of Arthur's head and kissing his face as Arthur dazedly licked his lips. “We certainly fucked this game all to hell, huh?”

“Well, I suppose it's been 5 Minutes of Awkward Confessions and 2 Minutes in Heaven,” Arthur grinned. “But that's a bit of a mouthful.” 

“Agreed,” Eames replied, gently bumping their noses together before leaning down for one last kiss, tasting chapstick and Pepsi and mint.

“But you'd better manufacture a suitably angry exit,” Eames whispered, grinning as the chair was loudly removed from under the doorknob. “You know, for the sake of the others.”

“Can do,” Arthur chuckled back, stretching up to press a kiss to his cheek before turning around, flinging the door open, and stomping out with a flourish.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20092.html?thread=50083452#t50083452) prompt at [Inception_kink](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/).


End file.
